(baby) you're like lightning in a bottle
by mostlyghostly
Summary: Stiles likes his nights to be gone in a blink, he doesn't really sleep much, and he likes his days filled with Scott McCall and sunshine. He likes to skateboard and he likes smoking weed, even likes serving assholes drinks at a local dive bar because it makes for good stories to tell.


When Scott and Stiles finally get the hell out of Beacon Hills, they lay down in the street.

The pavement is hot and it burns Stiles's shoulders, it makes him shake in his own skin. They pass a joint back and forth, watch the smoke curl in front of their sunglasses and grin at each other in between hits. It's nighttime, because it took the entire day to unload the Jeep, and their muscles ache pleasantly, like their bodies know what a big deal this is. Stiles himself is so happy to finally be out of the exhausting, pressing eyes of small town mothers, to be out from under his father's thumb, and drowned in the swelter of southern California, that he could honestly cry. He's spent years dreaming of this, long hazy nights spent with is best friend, the only person he trusts with his life, and shoulder burning days spent getting bruised by the sun and the ground at the skate park. He's been waiting years for this right here and nothing in the entire world could ruin it, not the thought of being run over and turned into a Stilescake, not the knowledge that their rent is sky high, absolutely nothing can stop him from breathing in the smog heavy air of Los Angeles and letting out a scream. He howls like he's hungry for something, and Scott looks over at him, his eyes big and brown and wonder filled before he too gives in to the call of concrete scraped knees and mean girls and lets out a scream of his own.

"This is gonna be fucking awesome," he croaks when they're done. The street they're lying on isn't in the best part of town and they may need tetanus shots when they get up. Stiles has never been so happy. His throat hurts and he's got Scott with him, $65 to his name, a Jeep that barely runs, and a picture of his mother in his wallet. He's so fucking happy.

"Yeah dude, it's gonna be an endless summer," Scott agrees wistfully, and Stiles nods as best as he can, spread eagle on the ground. Endless summer, yeah, that sounds good. He reaches over and grabs Scott's hand, pulls it to him and kisses the back of it like a promise of sticky mornings and nights that are lost to the fickleness of memory. They lie there for what seems like hours before Scott rolls himself closer, pressing himself into the space of warmth that Stiles provides and presses a kiss to his sweaty neck. He's so happy.

/

They frequent this skatepark a few blocks away from them. It's graffiti dirty, with sprigs of weeds growing in the cracks of the ground, and it's perfect. There's an empty pool too, and sometimes people sit in the bowl of it and smoke. Stiles likes to skate down to the bottom and pretend that he's swimming, he likes to scare the girls sitting pretty at the bottom. His board is old and grimy, but it gets the job done and it feels good knowing that it fits in with this checkerboard of messed up landscape he lives in now. When he and Scott touch wheels at the beginning of the day, he knocks his knuckles against his board, and blinks hard, because he likes the sweat and dirt of it all.

Scott meets a girl named Allison and her best friend Lydia a few weeks into their life awakening. They aren't the type to smoke all of their boyfriend's cheap weed at the bottom of the pool, but they also don't skate. Well Lydia doesn't. Allison is sort of a connoisseur of various talents and she zips around on an expensive longboard with bright pink wheels like a pro, circular sunglasses on and hat pulled low. Lydia reminds Stiles of Rizzo from Grease, she's intimidating and beautiful and she knows it, but sometimes she smiles and it's like TV being in color for the first time. She wears stylish mom jeans that probably cost somewhere around $200 and things called "bralettes" underneath designer plaid shirts and Stiles is a little obsessed with her. The first time they met, she'd barely looked in his direction, which he's used to, but they're friends now. It's a funny story, how they got there. Some douchebag with a quiff had grabbed her arm once, hard enough to bruise, and Stiles had clenched his jaw and punched the other guy in his. He's not really a fighter, but he saw red in that moment, when he noticed the genuine, but nearly undetectable fear, in Lydia's eyes. The guy had almost kicked the shit out of him, just for fun really, but Lydia recovered from her shock in enough time to square her shoulders and shove the quiff with more fire than a lighter could ever spark up. She'd helped him off the ground, watched him spit, and wiped the blood of the corner of his mouth before turning to the guy and threatening to tell him that she'd have someone named Boyd kick his ass if he tried that again. It seemed to do the trick and she angrily brought Stiles a beer from the gas station across the street to ice his eye.

"I got us into this warehouse party next weekend," she says one day, eyebrow kinked over the stark black frame of her Chanel sunglasses. She's wearing polished oxfords and there isn't a speck of dust, dirt, or insecurity on her. She's sitting a bench, hovering over Stiles and Allison who are sitting on their boards. Stiles is nursing an incredible pavement burn on his shoulder and the skin on his nose is starting to peel attractively. He doesn't want to go back to his shoebox apartment.

"Who's throwing? Please don't tell me it's that shade from Santa Monica, he was a complete creep," Allison begins, taking off her snapback and running a hand through her hair. She's decidedly less untouched than Lydia, but all the while angelic. Stiles likes watching them.

Lydia rolls her eyes, "No of course not. He sent one of his fucking puppies after Jackson for some money, did you hear? Kicked the living shit out of him too, and they wouldn't have heard from him again if his dad wasn't the damn DA."

"What?" Scott asks, rolling up to them and throwing himself down next to Allison. She mindlessly runs her fingers through his hair now, dislodging snapback that doesn't look nearly as cool on him. Stiles wants to kiss him stupid, wants to spend hours doing it until he's got fresh, pale skin on the slope of his nose and his shoulder is just a molten ugly bruise.

"We're going to a rave," Stiles states. Scott grins wolfishly before closing his eyes and letting out a low howl, something they still do. Stiles throws his head back so fast that he hears a crack in his neck, screams his throat raw.

"Fucking aces man."

/

Lydia knows who throws good raves. They walk into the warehouse, the sliding door huge and heavy, manned by a black guy with impressive muscles. He knows Lydia and Allison, so by extension he seems friendly enough with Scott and Stiles. Lydia calls him Boyd.

There's a guy on the second floor of the building sitting at a table with his arm wrapped around one of the prettiest girls Stiles has ever seen and one of his best friends is named Lydia Martin. She's perfectly put together, hard edged but soft around certain slopes, like where her shoulder melts into his arm, and her fingers lace through his tattooed one. Ordinarily, this is the kind of guy that would be associated with every hollow hearted dick to have ever done it, but Stiles can tell that he's cool. Even with the armor of his sleeved arms and septum piercing, he can tell that he's a good guy.

"Nice one Derek," Lydia smiles, sliding into a seat next to the girl. Her hair is this complicated pile of braids and ringlets on top of her head and she's wearing confidence like clothes.

"Thanks, B got the DJ," the guy says, nodding at his girlfriend.

"This is Scott and Stiles. They're in love, one of them is a hacker, and the other is secretly a badass; guess which one," Allison laughs happily grabbing both of their hands and seating them next to her.

"I feel like the name Stiles is a part of that whole computer nerd culture, so he's the hacker," the girl called B says, Lydia nods appreciatively as she digs through her purse.

"The wiry one is the secret badass," Derek guesses.

"And obviously they've been dating forever," another girl smirks as she walks over, carrying a tray of shots, way too much for so little people, and dragging a cherub behind her. Stiles admires her skill.

"Scott's the secret badass," is all he says, and really hunkers down for a good time when Derek breaks out a joint.

/

They spend an entire day skating. They wake up at 10 a.m., well Scott does and Stiles doesn't go to sleep after his shift at the bar. There are scrambled handjobs in the bed, sleepy kisses and wired morning routines with Stiles's meds and Scott's overly long shower. Los Angeles is a dream come true, the air smells like dirt, and this early in the morning, they can barely see the city, but it's brightening with each passing minute. There's a burning in Stiles's chest that makes him want to cry tears of joy, but instead he howls at the sun as they glide towards the skate part in their not so chic ratty flannels and Scott in his 3 day old stubble.

The sun boils, reaches down and slips its fingers beneath Stiles's skin, making him warm and tingly all over. He's running on fumes, but he sucks some more in when Lydia offers him a joint, and they take a break from all their skating to sit in front her favorite bench and listen to her talk about Allison, who's working her shift at the motel a few roads down. They're the kind of couple that finds each other in the dark, after relationships end and in between storms. Stiles thinks someone could write the next great American novel about the two of them and their starlight love. He'd read.

By the time 6 p.m rolls around, Stiles's legs are jelly, his back in a mess of burns and scrapes and pain and his knees are an artist's palette of blues, purples, blacks, and yellows. He breathes a giant sigh of relief when Scott flies towards him, stops a little too close for most people's comfort, and takes his hands in his. His eyes are a perfect brightness, like their first night is LA and playgrounds, and Stiles surges forward to kiss him like it's he wants to suffocate. The other boy lets out a little noise of surprise but winds his arms around Stiles's neck anyway, drags his hands up his back and through his damp hair, messes it up nicely.

"Allison's driving," Scott murmurs against his lips, breathing heavy and throat scratchy. Stiles bites his bottom lip, trails kisses reverently over his jaw, sucks a song into his neck, before pulling away and nodding.

"We're riding," he laughs, and grabs his best friend's hand so they can run together.

Stiles likes his nights to be gone in a blink, he doesn't really sleep much, and he likes his days filled with Scott McCall and sunshine. He likes to skateboard and he likes smoking weed, even likes serving assholes drinks at a local dive bar because it makes for good stories to tell. He loves these two girls named Allison Argent and Lydia Martin, and he wants them to make babies that will call him uncle, and as soon as he and Scott manage to jam their stupid, fucked up lock into its rightful place, he realizes how much he loves the noises Scott makes and how long it's been since he's coaxed them out of those lips.

"I've missed you," he whispers, crowding the other boy against their faulty door. His breath smells like that cheap ass freshman in college weed, but that's fine, Stiles plans on kissing the taste right out of his mouth.

"You've been with me all day. It's Thursday, ours," Scott whispers back, voice a little rougher already. Stiles kisses the corner of that mouth, his eyes fluttering closed when he feels how sun warmed the skin there is.

"Ours, yeah. Love Thursdays," he mutters, burying his face in the junction of Scott's neck and shoulder, running his tongue over the stretched skin there, tilting the other boy's head to the side for better access. Scott knows how much Stiles gets off on that, directing his body whichever way he wants, so he lets him.

"Love you too," he breathes, closing his own eyes and relaxing into the feeling of Stiles clever fingers fumbling with his belt.

"Love you more."

They stay there for a while longer, Scott pinned to the door by Stiles's insistent hips and bruising kisses, but they move to their bedroom soon enough. They don't trip over boots or skateboards, kick dirty clothes out of the way though, and giggle into each other's mouths when they try to strip without breaking their kisses. Stiles likes Scott like this, tired, but ready and wanting and he takes advantage of his pilant state. When they're both naked, he shoves him back onto the bed and crawls into the bowl of his hips, makes sure to grind down filthily at the same time as he nips at the spot behind Scott's ear that drives the boy wild. He lets out an involuntary little gasp at that, making the other boy smirk.

"Love the noises you make Scotty," Stiles groans, "love listening to you get wound up so tight that you're begging to come," he takes Scott's cock into his hand, jerks it sharply once.

He's tired, he's exhausted, has barely slept at all, but he's also wired, running on adrenaline and lust. He kisses down Scott's willing body, loving the arch and grind of him, listening closely to his little please and whimpers. He knows that he'll get louder as the night goes one, knows that his boy likes to play it cool until he's so desperate that he can't, and that's when the dirtiest things start to pour out of his mouth. He takes his cock into his mouth, moaning around it at the taste of sweat and precome, and swirling his tongue like he knows Scott likes.

"Shit Stiles, fuck, just like that," he whimpers, trying not to thrust into Stiles's throat like he wants to. He knows Stiles likes to tease. He's wicked with his tongue, flicking and swirling it, and pulling off for a moment to place a sloppy kiss on the head of his dick. He looks up at Scott and bats his eyelashes.

"Yeah? You like when I tease you like that?" he kisses the head again, this time pulling away with a string of precome on his bottom lip, "love how wet you get baby, love how much precome you drip, love it when you get the sheets all fucking messy," he tells him lowly, and goes back to it, taking Scott's cock all the way to the back of his throat, but slowly, working the muscles there expertly. Stiles loves giving head, it gets him off like fucking does. He likes looking up at Scott and watching him go wide eyed, watching him throw his head back and let out these low, whiny little noises, not the thick guttural ones you would expect. He likes that Scott curves a little to the left, making it a little harder to deepthroat him, and he loves how wet Scott gets. He leaks so much precome and it makes Stiles so hot he usually has to fight not to come when he blows him.

Scott's shaking by the time he's done, his thighs quivering so prettily that Stiles just has to suck a few bruises into the thin skin there. He's rewarding by a moan deep in Scott's chest, and he travels upwards to get those puffy nipples in his mouth and reach under the pillow for lube.

"I'm gonna fuck you so good Scotty," he gets another moan, louder this time, "god, I'm gonna fuck your tight little ass until you can't move, so you'll wake up in the morning sore."

"Yes- yeah Stiles please. Please fuck me, love it when you fuck me," his voice cracks, and he's still not as loud as Stiles would like as he slicks up his fingers and slips one in to the knuckle. Scott arches hotly, scratching at Stiles's back.

"Do you want more?" and Scott always wants more. He wants more all of the time, and he tries to explain that to Stiles, tries to tell him that he never gets enough of him, still hasn't had enough and it's been years. Instead though, he just fucks back onto those long fingers desperately, getting louder now.

" _Stiles_ ," he groans. Stiles chuckles, laughs meanly in a way that makes Scott's face heat up, but buck his hips for more anyway.

"So fucking _needy_ , baby," he laughs, "you know how much I like that. Makes me wanna press you down and fuck you till you're crying, shit."

When Stiles finally slides in, slow and steady and straight to the hilt, Scott tilts his head back wantonly and lets out a heavy breath of what would have been a long, loud moan. When he pulls out and slams back in, he keens loudly, and- _that's it_ , that's what Stiles wanted. He fucks him like that for a little while longer, pulling almost all the way out and fucking back in hard to listen to the loud moans his Scott lets out, before it becomes too much. He takes his face in his hands, breath hot against each other's lips and he fucks him with these quick short grinds of his hips, forcing these punched out groans out of Scott, who can't pull his eyes away from the sweat beading intensity of Stiles's face.

"Fuck you're so goddamned tight, always so fucking tight for me Scotty," he groans, tucking his face into the curve of Scott's neck, whose hands come to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Yeah, so good. You feel so good, fucking me like this,- fucking hell right _there_ \- shit I missed you so much, missed this,- too long. Too long since I had your cock, needed it," Scott bites out, shuddering and shaking against Stiles.

"Needed it huh? Need my cock in your ass? Good,- oh fuck-, nobody can give this to you. Nobody can fuck your needy ass like this, only me. Your fucking mine," he growls, his face flushes and his eyes wide in a way that makes it easy to tell for Scott; easy to tell that for all his possessive dirty talk, Stiles really just means that he loves him, really just means that he doesn't want him to go anywhere. Needs him to stay.

"Only you, Stiles,-holy hell yes,- only you."

/

The next time they make some time for an entire day together, it's because Lydia has decided to drag the two of them along on a trip with Derek and their little pack of friends. Since the night of the rave Scott and Stiles, who are ScottandStiles to them, have made startlingly quick friends with all of them. Derek is like everyone's older brother, in that weird strong, silent, and douchebag kind of way and since both Scott and Stiles are only children, it takes some getting used to. But there's Erica, who when paired with Lydia could probably take over the world, and Isaac, who is everyone's little brother to counteract Derek's attitude, and Boyd who balances the entire group out. For this trip they all pile into Derek's ugly Toyota, and Stiles's Jeep, with rolled joints, towels, surfboards, coolers of food, and sunscreen by the damned gallon. Braedon even decides to deal with the lot of them for 12 hours and so does Cora, Derek's sister. Derek obviously only attracts scarily gorgeous women to be fixtures in his life, but it's cool, Stiles is so happy.

Venice Beach is a lot cooler than Downtown Los Angeles, and it's way cleaner. The girls are all in their bathing suits and while Erica, Cora and Allison all opt to get into the water, Lydia and Braedon stay on the beach to lay out. They're the picture of summertime serenity, stunning women that would never talk to you if pressed, and Stiles looks around at his merry group of idiots, passing joints in plain sight, sipping Coronas, complaining loudly, and he feels a weird surge of affection for all of them. It's good. It's great.

"So much better than summers at the lake back home, huh?" Scott laughs, saddling up next to him under the umbrella Lydia brought. Their friends are in the water again after they've eaten, playing that game where someone sits on shoulders and it's hilarious to watch. Allison is reffing this round, and Lydia has gone to pull out the coolers from the Jeep. The sun is setting and Stiles feels like he could float away, so he yanks Scott closer to press him into the warm sand.

" _So_ much better. This is like, next level shit, 10 out of 10, would definitely do again, type shit," he mumbles, giggling his way into a series of quick, salty kisses.

An hour later finds them walking the shore, bone tired, and droopy eyed and grinning. They're holding hands and eating popsicles and nursing wounds from their rounds holding Allison and Lydia on their shoulders. The two of them are buzzing from the group's bonfire, where they passed joints and drank together and laughed and Derek even weirdly brought out his guitar that no one but Cora and Braedon knew he could play. Everyone was smoke soft and happy when the two of them left, stealing popsicles for the road. Stiles grips his best friend's hand a little tighter.

"Here's to an endless summer," he whispers, pressing a sticky kiss to Scott's cheek, and throwing his head back to howl at the fast hurtling moon. When Scott copies, so do eight other people. Stiles's heart lurches.

"Fucking aces man," Scott says when the noise has died down. They both smile. Their kisses taste like blue rasberry and beach. Stiles hopes next summer is just as good.


End file.
